Another round of heavy banging. “Master d’Cannith, my business is most urgent! If you are occupied, I understand, and shall take my business to Master d’Phiarlan. I had hoped to offer your guild this honor first, but such is life!”
Dalan closed his book with a snap, tossed it onto a nearby couch, and stalked out the study door. After several moments, she heard the iron squeal of old hinges below.
“What?” snapped a terse voice below.
“Ah, greetings and good evening to you, Master d’Cannith.”
She heard the reply, though she could not see either speaker beneath the sloping overhang.
“I bring you greetings on behalf of the Lost Children of Wroat. Surely being a member of a household whose humanitarian actions during the Last War are so renowned, you would be eager to aid this prestigious charity? I ask only whatever you can spare to help us purchase food, medicine, perhaps even new toys to brighten what would otherwise be a bleak and hopeless …”
Seren could not help a smile. Jamus hadn’t shared the full details of how he intended to distract their target, but she had trusted the old thief to be creative. She unhooked the metal sphere from her belt, cracking it open to reveal the glowing stone within. Such magic was expensive, but light without a spark was a useful investment in her line of work. She frowned as she studied the window, finding no lock. Holding the stone up to the window, she began tracing the edges of the sill with one finger.
“Orphans?” the other voice said below. “You roused me from my leisure to beg for charity?”
“Not just any charity, Master d’Cannith, the Lost Children of Wroat, a proud and well respected-”
The sound of a slamming door connecting with the toe of a boot interrupted his monologue.
“Ahem. A proud and respected charity with, as I am sure one of your impressive social connections is aware, a sterling reputation for-”
“I have never heard of you and I can assure you I give quite generously to several legitimate charities. Now get your foot out of my door.”
“I can understand your reluctance, Master d’Cannith, for there are many opportunistic souls who seek to twist the generosity of those touched by the War,” Jamus said, accompanied by the rhythmic sound of a door repeatedly hitting a foot. “I assure you, however, that we are legitimate. Look only to these beautiful glass marbles, painted by the children-”
“Leave before I call the Watch.”
“Please, Master, look at these marbles,” Jamus continued, “each hand-painted in exquisite detail by the very innocents whom your money will support.”
“I am not interested. Return when it is daylight and take up your begging with my servants if you must.”
“But please, good master, just examine one and see the simple beauty-”
A wracking cough resounded from below, followed by the sound of a bag of glass marbles striking a wooden floor and scattering its contents.
“Oh, drat,” Jamus said.
This was followed by the other voice swearing urgently in several languages.
“I apologize, good master. This chill rain has left me with trembling hands.”
“Just pick them up and go!”
There, Seren found what she sought. What appeared to be a flaw in the grain was actually a mark, painted in dark brown ink, in the upper corner of the window. It formed a figure eight pattern between the sill and the wood. She didn’t recognize the rune. Perhaps it simply held the window sealed unless the proper word was spoken. Perhaps it would raise an alarm, or worse, explode and hurl Seren into the street. The Canniths were artificers and magewrights, and though the man who lived here reputedly possessed no magical training, it was no surprise to find his home was protected. Seren rose from her crouch as much as she dared, studying the ward further.
In a city as large as Wroat, magic was fairly common. The city drew wizards as surely as it drew everyone else. Seren avoided stealing from wizards or magewrights, not out of any fear of magic but simply because they were more trouble than they were worth. Jamus taught her that magic was no different from any other form of power-worthy of respect, but no more frightening than the flawed men and women who used it. Even if you couldn’t learn to use magic, you could learn to deal with it. Seren couldn’t build a lock, but she could pick one with a bent wire. Magic was the same. There was always an answer.
Seren drew a small tin and brush from her belt pouch. Shielding the tin from the rain, she opened its lid and wrinkled her nose at the harsh smell of its contents. Carefully, she brushed the thick, clear paste over one of the glass panes, coating it entirely, then closed the tin and put it back in her pouch. She drew out several strips of thick felt and pressed them against the glass, then bound another around her right hand. Taking a deep breath, she punched the glass as hard as she could where she had glued the felt over its surface. She heard only a muffled crack in reply. She peeled the felt away in a single piece, removing the broken pane in one neat sheet, which she carefully folded and stuffed into the gargoyle’s open beak.
Next she produced a small mirror with a sharp pin on one side and a long stick of charcoal. Careful to avoid the bits broken glass that clung to the window’s frame, she reached through and pinned the mirror to the sill inside, facing her. She adjusted it until she could see the rune pattern on the inside and then carefully began work on the rune with her charcoal. It was the same sort of pigment most mages used to complete such wards, and if she was careful enough she could isolate the pattern on each side and disable the ward, at least for a short time. Finishing the pattern on the inside, she paused only long enough to sharpen her charcoal on a shard of broken glass, then do the same on the exterior. Tucking the tools back in her pouch, she looked at her work cautiously. There was only one real way to tell if it worked. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and opened the window with a quick heave.
Seren opened her eyes to discover, quite happily, that the window was open, there was no alarm, and she was still alive. She could still hear voices downstairs, one swearing in a rage and the other apologizing obsequiously as he continued to clumsily lose his marbles. With no sign that she had been discovered, Seren plucked up her mirror, nimbly hopped into the study, and closed the window behind her.
The thick smell of incense and woodsmoke hung heavily in the air, barely covering the more cloying scent of old sweat. This was clearly one man’s private refuge, and she would be glad to be out of it. She looked down with a start as something wet touched her shin. A squat, shaggy black hound, its fur shot through with gray, looked up at her mournfully. Its tail thumped the side of the desk when she looked at it.
“Some watchdog you are,” she whispered.
The old dog’s ears perked up. It glanced up at the desk, then back at her. A low whine began to rise in the dog’s chest, and it opened its mouth as if to bark. Seren quickly snatched Dalan’s half-finished cake from the desk and tossed it to the dog. The animal caught the cake in midair and flopped on the floor, consuming the sweet bribe contentedly.
Seren stepped past the dog, eager to find what she sought and leave before the dog reconsidered its treachery. She drew a scrap of paper from her pocket and glanced at the illustration as she scanned the shelves. The paper bore an illustration of a small journal with a black cover, emblazoned with the House Cannith gorgon crest above the image of an albatross in flight. Seren scowled in irritation as she looked at the countless books that lined the shelves. The house’s owner had a reputation for being indolent and lazy; he was not known as a scholar. She had thought one book would be easy to find in his house. Now she realized she might search all night and never find the right one. She tested the nearest bookcase, hoping against hope that they were the false vanity books that many nobility favored. They were genuine enough, unfortunately, and focused on a variety of eclectic subjects from magic to history to music and even exotic cooking. All looked well read. She would never find the book she wanted before the guildmaster returned to find his broken window, missing cake, and the small river of rainwater she’d leaked on his floor.